


Two Sided

by littleoptimistme



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Brothers, Childhood, Emotions, Friendship, Gen, Gravity Falls - Freeform, Mind Reader, Mind Reading, Monsters, Ocean, Old Men, One Shot, Post-Canon, Psychic Abilities, Sharing Pain, Stan & Ford - Freeform, Stangst, Supernatural - Freeform, Traveling, abilities, and i need to know people are still loving this wonderful show, does anyone still watch gravity falls in 2020 because i watched the whole thing in 2 weeks, stan is A Mess, stanley and stanford, they are very emotionally messed up old men okay, this isn’t a ship please no god no, twin psychics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoptimistme/pseuds/littleoptimistme
Summary: When they were kids, Mrs. Pines swore her twin boys were psychic. But Mrs. Pines was a hoax, so what did she know?
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 24
Kudos: 173





	Two Sided

The first time it happened, Stan was packing his suitcase into the trunk of the car. The suitcase was a great old thing littered with stamps and stickers from trips long ago; a scuffed, gruff bag which might have been green at some point, but now was a muddy conglomerate brown. The latches strained and the edge of one of Stan’s Hawaiian shirts peaked out. Stan shoved it deep into the car’s gullet along with a variety of tangled fishing gear, and neatly stacked and labeled boxes of scientific woozy-doozy Ford already packed. What Ford lacked in clothes (they did need to remedy that at some point. He couldn’t wear the same three outfits from the closet forever) he made up in mechanical equipment. Mabel and Dipper had left less than a week ago, and Stan felt it was high time to get out of here. The shack was a little too quiet without them, even with the considerable amount of noise Ford managed to make.

Stan’s chest was all bungled up, a mix of apprehension and joy. He knew his brother, he did, but on the other hand, he didn’t really. He’d been separated from Ford for longer than they were ever together. Not knowing Ford hurt in a very familiar way, and Stan wasn’t going to say _no_ to this trip (how could he possibly) but he could not kick the lingering suspicion that Ford was only humoring him. Was it easier to let Ford go and continue knowing him from a safe distance? Yes. Yes it was. If he didn’t get to know him again, Stan didn’t have to risk figuring out what Ford’s actual motives were.

Stan took a deep breath and shut the trunk with finality. He was a grown man, for Pete’s sake. He was too old for all this emotional shit. He was going and that was that.

Besides, he was _excited_ to do this with Ford regardless.

Stan grunted and turned back toward the shack, whistling an idle toon while he walked. As he lifted his hand to scratch his nose, a sharp pain sliced across his thumb. He hissed and jerked back, but there wasn’t anything wrong with his thumb, and the pain faded to a dull pulse within a few seconds. Frowning, Stan poked at it. Random pains were not exactly unusual. He shook his hand out, shrugged, and continued on to the shack.

In the kitchen, Ford was talking out loud to no one, which was something he did more than Stan even. It was slightly concerning, but Stan hadn’t brought it up yet. Currently, his brother was halfway up the counter, reaching deep into the mouth of the top cupboard, a handful of cans in his other arm. It was a move Stan doubted he could pull off anymore, but Ford was considerably more agile than Stan, given their lifestyles. “... if we each eat one can a day, we can last- well, but Stan’s not going to eat one can. He’ll survive on one can. I should get him some vegetables and vitamins anyhow. Which reminds me, we need more vitamin C…”

Stan opened the fridge and poked through the shelves. There was a jar of Mabel Juice in the door, bright pink with little toy dinosaurs and glitter gathered at the bottom. She must have left it behind. Stan smiled and grabbed a chunk of cheese to naw.

Ford was still going on.

“Course if we- oh, Stan, good, you’re back. Can you take these?” He gestured at his handful of cans.

Stan complied, letting him drop the cans into his arms and then onto the counter. He frowned at his brother’s hand. Ford had wrapped a little bunch of napkin around his thumb. Stan stared at Ford’s hand for a moment, probably a moment too long because Ford gave him an irritated look. 

“Did you cut your thumb?” Stan grunted.

The irritation cleared from Ford’s face. “Ah, yes. The edges of these cans…” He rolled his eyes and peeled back the napkin to reveal a neat slice on the pad of his thumb. He covered it before it could keep bleeding. “Cans are incredibly impractical. I visited a world once where they commonly kept their food in floating orbs of jelly. Now that was convenient.”

Stan’s brain stuttered for a second. He stood stalk still, a can of green beans in one hand, and a can of corn in the other.

Ford raised an eyebrow. “Something… wrong?”

Stan blinked. He shrugged and decided he was _not_ going to think about this too hard. He set down the cans. “Nope!”

The second time was at sea, when Ford and Stan were a week out. Stan had never been to sea for this long, though apparently Ford had. Ford told him bits and pieces about the other side of the portal, but it was like pulling the claws out of a cat. Stan was curious but not enough to risk pressing on an obvious wound. He knew it must have been shit over there and that was enough for now.

Night was falling, and they both wore sweaters on the deck of their little ship. It was getting colder everyday, both because of their continuous chase for the northern star, and the waning summer. Stan flicked the fishing line back over the edge and watched it leave a trail in the water as the boat slowly moved. Ford sat a few feet away in his own folding chair, an ankle up on his knee. He simultaneously read a book with his glasses balanced precariously on his large nose and fiddled with a little metal box and a screwdriver. It would be dark soon, and they would go to bed. Or, Stan would go to bed and Ford would pretend he was sleeping but would actually be working on something in the other room. They didn’t talk much, the two of them. Not in a bad way necessarily. It wasn’t that they didn’t communicate, it was that as the days went on it got easier to just know what the other wanted with little more than a grunt or an eyebrow quirk. Ford was very good at knowing exactly what Stan meant even when the words didn’t quite make it to his mouth, which Stan was grateful for.

Course, they were going to have to talk, really talk, eventually. Stan wasn’t going to initiate that. What? This was _fine_ and if they never talked about anything, that was just peachy.

Instead, Stan watched his little red bobber bounce up and down over the waves. He watched the sun set in a melting cascade of orange and red over the water. Mabel would have found the sunsets on the sea absolutely delightful. They would have to take them out here next summer. Yeah, that was a good idea.

Something made a sharp _snap,_ and Stan dropped the fishing pole. He grabbed at his chest with a yelp of pain.

At the same moment: “Shit-!” Ford jumped up, box and book clattering to the floor. He stomped on the book to put out the smoldering pages. He rubbed his chest and the little singe mark in the red sweater. “Damned thing…” he muttered.

Stan fumbled for the fishing pole, his fingers shaky after the shock.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” said Ford, apparently unconcerned about pain which very much still had Stan’s entire body on edge. Ford picked up the book and dusted off the blackened pages, frowning irritably.

Stan opened his mouth. To what? What was he possibly going to say? Had it electrocuted him too? Stan didn’t find that very likely, but he accepted it all the same. “S’fine,” Stan said instead. He glared at the metal box warily. “What is that thing anyhow?”

Ford didn’t seem too excited to pick it up again. He nudged it with his foot. “Well, it _was_ a location and supernatural filter based on abnormal atomic behavior and…” he trailed off, looking back up at Stan a little apologetically. “It’s complicated.”

Stan grunted and reeled his line back in. He didn’t really feel like fishing any more, to be honest. He stood up and cracked his back a few times. “Damned old bones…” he muttered. Fishing line secured, he placed it on its shelf beneath the edge of the boat, ready for tomorrow and yawned. “Did you stabilize the atmosphere neutrons? If you don’t account for the outliers, things like that tend to overload.” He yawned again and turned toward the door. “Think I’ll head in,” he caught Ford’s gaze and paused. Ford was looking at him like he’d grown an extra head.

Stan raised his eyebrows, waiting. “What?”

“I… I didn’t. Account for them, that is.” Ford picked up the box gingerly, but his attention was entirely on Stan, and Stan was getting increasingly uncomfortable under his knife-like gaze. Ford wasn’t a kind person, and he did not pretend to be. He was all sharp edges. His gaze was not enjoyable unless he was really trying to make it so, and right now, he was much too shocked to try.

Stan didn’t want to deal with this right now. He shrugged irritably. “I studied AstroPhysics for thirty years, Ford. Because _someone_ hid their journals so damn well.”

Ford’s mouth dropped open and he stuttered. “R-right. Of course. I’d… right. That makes… sense.”

A flicker of anger ignited in Stan’s chest. He could have fought him right then and there, but he knew Ford wouldn’t even understand why he was upset. Stan left the deck quickly, slamming the door shut on Ford’s words.

“Understand _what-?_ ”

Stan glowered in his cabin, kicking at the bits of trash he had scattered around the room. He almost forgot about the whole shock incident but for the tenderness on his chest. He rubbed at it unconsciously, and then paused, considering. It would be just his luck, wouldn’t it? To be Ford’s punching bag in every sense.

After that evening Stan really got to thinking about it, even though he didn’t want to. It was like an itch in the middle of his back. He just _had_ to try and scratch it.

When he was a kid, very little, mind you, he vaguely recalled his mother proudly touting around her ‘mystery twins,’ telling anyone who would listen that they ‘had the gift.’ He remembered not knowing what she meant, but being very happy that his mommy was happy about it. He remembered telling his brother to close his eyes and to tell him the first thing he thought of. Stan remembered they had a list of all the times Ford knew what Stan was going to say before he said it.

Had it gone both ways? Stan didn’t know. They used to both end up with black eyes after fights with the local bullies, even though Stan didn’t remember getting punched in the face. They’d both gone in to have their appendix removed when they were twelve, although it was only Ford’s that needed operating. 

It was all easily explainable and easily ignored, and it faded when they got older. By the time they were teenagers, they understood that their mom was a con artist, and neither of them believed in psychics. Then, Stan was kicked out, and Stan did everything in his power to not think about _anything_. He kept moving, kept searching, kept fighting.

Stan brought it up when they were eating breakfast a morning more than a week later just to make sure he was remembering correctly. They were kids after all. He could have imagined it. 

The Stan-O-War was docked at a small island town near Russia. The little kitchen on the boat boasted of a single fire stove, a microwave, and a coffee maker. They _had_ a toaster but Ford had altered it for a ‘temporary experiment’ that made the machine now permanently turn every single piece of bread into a live chicken (Ford was very fascinated by this and there were now several live chickens living on this boat). Stan preferred toast.

“Do you remember when we were kids…” Stan trailed off, suddenly uncertain. He took a swig of coffee, and Ford narrowed his eyes. His hair was a little wild. He’d slept the full night through for once and emerged from his cabin very startled by the experience.

“What, generally? Yes, Stanley, I remember our childhood.”

Stan grunted. “Do you remember the time you sprained your ankle on the beach?”

He’d been running from Stan, shrieking while Stan chased with a bucket of sea water and cackled like a wild thing. When Ford stepped wrong into a hole in the sand, Stan had immediately lost his footing as well and a searing pain flew up his leg. They both screamed, and Stan fell on the bucket, busting his lip in the process.

Ford thought for a moment and nodded. “I recall.” He nodded again, a small smile growing on his lips. “You insisted mom put the bandages on you too.”

Humming, Stan stirred his scrambled eggs with a fork. He suddenly wished he hadn’t brought it up. “I thought I was hurt too,” he said.

“Really? I thought you just wanted attention. You used to do that a lot when we were young. When I was sick, you said you were sick, when I got hurt, you ‘got hurt’ too.” Ford rolled his eyes good naturedly.

Stan wasn’t sure what to say to that. Ford probably thought Stan did a lot of things because he was jealous. He really didn’t get it, did he? This whole conversation made Stan nervous.

“What’s there to be nervous about?” said Ford, forehead creased.

Stan stood abruptly. “Let’s go into town,” he said. He shoveled in the last of his eggs and threw away the paper plate. “We’re out of baked beans.”

Ford looked at him, and Stan _dared him_ to press the issue. Ford’s gaze dropped to his own breakfast. “Alright, Stanley.”

* * *

But he couldn’t ignore it forever. It was getting more and more common the longer this trip stretched, and Stan loathed to admit it, but he couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening anymore. Fortunately, Ford was so damned self-absorbed, he’d yet to notice. Still, Stan didn’t want to press his luck. Stan needed to be stealthy about this because if Ford found out, he was going to make a whole fuss. That, or he’d laugh Stan out of the stupid boat.

They were exploring a deserted island that ought to have been an icy wasteland and was instead a humid, humming jungle filled with purple vines and weird, many-eyed creatures. It was under some sort of weather bubble, as far as Stan could tell. Ford was absolutely in his element, his smile wide and his eyes bright. His joy was contagious, and Stan was more than willing to follow behind him, looking over a yellowed map they’d found previously. He flipped the map around. “Ey, Ford, we might be going the-”

He stumbled, his foot caught on a purple vine, and fell with a jolt into the dirt. Groaning, Stan got up to his knees. _Holy Moses, that hurt._

“What was that, Stan? Oh! Are you alright?” Ford poked his head back around a bend in the trail he was wacking with a machete. Stan waved him off with a grumble and struggled to his feet.

“I was sayin’ the map might be upside down.”

Ford’s eyes widened, and he hurried back. They looked over the map, twisting it this way and that. Ford hummed. “I believe you may be correct.” A sigh. “Well,” He perked up again. “This way it is!”

And Ford went off back the way they’d come.

Stan found himself pausing. The jungle was loud around him, buzzing with insects, rustling leaves, and the sound of Ford talking (to Stan, theoretically). He rubbed at his elbows, which were still pulsing with pain. They were probably going to hurt like hell tomorrow.

His eyes narrowed. If this had been Ford, Stan definitely would have felt it. Even now, his hands were sore from swinging a machete he’d never touched. He formed a fist and dropped it. Before he could talk himself out of it, Stan pulled back and kicked the tree next to him _hard._ He cursed, bouncing back and grabbing his foot.

“Don’t fall behind, Stanley!” Ford called cheerily.

Stan rolled the map up and clenched his jaw. Of course. It wasn’t Ford’s fault, but that didn’t make Stan feel any better. In fact, he felt awful about the whole situation. It had always been like this, hadn’t it? Stan was more connected to Ford than Ford ever was to him. It was sickeningly fitting this way.

When he caught up to Ford, Ford glanced at him with a frown. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Stan spat.

Ford did not believe him, obviously. He paused, head cocked. “Do you… want to switch?” He held out the machete.

Stan considered the offer and shrugged. He could use some good ol’ violence. “Don’t mind if I do.” He handed Ford the map and began the very satisfying process of killing plants.

* * *

On the Stan O’War, the night wore on. The sky was just beginning to lighten through the shut blinds, and Stan still couldn’t sleep. Or, more accurately, Ford was hyped up on half a dozen cups of coffee. For someone who was constantly berating Stan about healthy habits, he could not be more of a hypocrite.

There was a buzz next door that Stan felt in his fingers. Stan groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. He wasn’t one to have trouble sleeping. Ever since he was a kid, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. But lately, Ford was getting less and less sleep. Which apparently now meant Stan did as well.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “That’s it.” He pulled his legs over the side of his bed and stumbled in his boxers, scowling, to the door.

Ford’s room was next to his, shut tight. Light sparked from beneath it and Stan leaned his head against the doorframe, exhausted by more than just the lost night. He needed to go in there. They needed to talk. He needed to just suck it up. _I need sleep._

He didn’t bother knocking. Stan opened the door to reveal what might have been a fairly organized bedroom at some point with an unused bed covered in boxes of mechanics and paper, and the floor covered in scattered pages. Ford was still in his clothes, sitting at a desk, back to Stan. He turned when the door opened and lifted bright green goggles off his eyes, dropping whatever it was he was working on. The eyes beneath the goggles were bloodshot, his skin ashen. Ford swallowed dryly before speaking. “Ah, breakfast already? Thought I’d get an early start.”

Stan did not want to even dignify that with a response. He glared. “You didn’t sleep all night.”

Ford raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I did.”

“You’re seriously going to try and _lie_ to me, Ford? You look like shit. You could pack luggage in the bags under your eyes. Please. It’s late, or early, or whatever.”

Ford pressed his lips together in something that was supposed to be a smile. “I appreciate the concern, but I am fine.”

Seriously? “This isn’t a request, damn it. You _need_ to go to bed _now._ ”

“Why? Am I keeping you up? I have a sonar bubble around my workspace, so there shouldn’t be any noise going through the walls.”

“Are you-” Stan broke off in a cracked laugh. “You are so damned _selfish!”_

Ford turned around fully as the boat lurched. “What? Stan-”

“Just listen to me for once, will you?”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not! If you ever got your head out of your-” The boat lurched again, this time strong enough that a bowl of gears rolled off the table, and Ford fumbled to catch them. They paused, argument momentarily shelved.

“What was that?” said Stan.

Ford stood and pushed past him. “Nothing good, I’m sure.”

They jogged from the back of their little boat to the front, where a chilling sight made Stan’s heart stutter. Green tentacles, thicker than Stan was tall and crusted in oysters slipped in and out of the water. It was difficult to even comprehend how large the creature must be. The water was alive with motion.

“We’re surrounded!” Ford shouted from his position at the lookout. Stan grabbed one of the many guns they had stashed around the boat and held it up, ready.

The nearest tentacle slammed into the boat, sending Stan sprawling against the edge on the opposite side of the boat. “What’s it want?”

“To eat us, I assume!” Ford cocked a massive glowing weapon, his eyes hard and determined. Stan fumbled for his feet, but as he did, a tentacle whipped up and slapped the boat again. The monster began wrapping smaller tentacles around anything it could reach, Stan included. With a shout he shot at one of the tentacles, blowing the tip clean off. He whooped, but just as quickly, another appendage found its way around his waist and lifted him from the boat. Cursing wildly, Stan kept shooting. The waves roared in his ears. He could hear Ford screaming something in the distance.

If he could just get the right position. Stan kicked and shot at the tentacle until he was twisted upside down. He shot lasers of bright blue light into the mass of slimy octopus. The thing tightened around him, roaring from a mouth he couldn’t find.

“Ford! Ford, where the hell are you!”

Then he caught a glimpse, between the waving mass of tentacles and splashing water, of Ford. His arm was caught tight by a tentacle, his foot by another. The large gun he’d been holding dropped onto the deck. Even so, Ford still held his own, kicking with his free leg.

The tentacle tightened around Stan’s chest and he yelped. It shook him this way and that like a rag doll, and Stan just kept shooting it. Thank god laser guns didn’t run out of ammo. His head was starting to pound. Stan wasn’t going to be able to stay conscious for much longer.

He just needed one clean shot. He brought the gun up, abandoning his attack on the tentacle around his waist, and aimed. There was salt water in his eyes. A sickening wooden crack rang out as a tentacle slammed into their boat again. Ford was lucky he was a damned good shot. All those years running around the streets paid off.

Stan took a deep breath. Ford’s head whipped toward him. “Now!”

Stan pulled the trigger.

And Ford fell, twenty-feet to the dock, landing messily in a failed roll. Stan gasped, his hold on his gun immediately lost as his arm broke and pain arched all the way up to his shoulder. No. No, _Ford’s_ arm broke. Stan’s weapon clattered to the deck and washed over the side.

“Kill it! Kill it, Ford!” Stan screamed.

The thing tightened around his ribs, and he could feel the bones creaking inside him.

 _Oh god, I’m going to die,_ Stan thought.

“Like hell you are!”

Ford’s log sized weapon was at his side, and he struggled with it as his other arm dangled at his side. The thing glowed bright green as it powered up. Stan shut his eyes, pulling away. “Do it!”

And suddenly.

Stan was falling. The pressure around his waist disappeared. He yelped and freezing water surrounded him, the monster nowhere to be found.

He floundered, struggling for the surface. His arm was killing him. He couldn't move it. Before he could begin to panic about this new problem, a strong hand grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him up and into the side of the boat.

“You’ve got to grab on- I can’t-”

Stan understood. He grabbed the edge of the boat, the wood digging into his hand. The pain in his arm had eased slightly, but it was still too much to bear his weight.

“Here,” Ford tried to grab his left arm, and Stan hissed, pulling back. “It’s fine! Give me a minute!”

For a long moment they stayed still, breathing hard. The water lapped calmly against the boat, like it hadn’t been a frothing whirlpool just a moment before.

Ford chuckled. “Well. At least we know _that_ weapon works.”

Stan looked up. “You didn’t know it would work?!”

“I was reasonably sure, but I had never tested it out on such a large…” 

“Damn it, Ford. I could have died!”

Ford rolled his eyes. “You weren’t going to die.” His right hand still held Stan up. “Is your arm injured?”

Stan opened his mouth and stuttered. “No. But I’m pretty sure it broke at least a few ribs.” His legs kicked in the deep water and for the first time, he managed to look around. “Where’d the bugger go anyway?”

“Oh, I shrank it.” Ford nodded toward a fist sized octopus who was thrashing and splashing angrily a little distance from the boat. Ford’s weapon lay at his side.

 _Just like Dipper’s flashlight,_ Stan thought.

“Precisely,” said Ford. “Now, let's get you up.”

Stan wiggled his fingers, relieved to feel that Ford’s pain appeared to have faded. He grabbed some of the roping and pulled himself over the edge, dropping onto the deck with a jolt. Ford dropped down beside him, and they lay there, breathing hard and looking up at the few remaining stars with dazed eyes. The boat creaked.

“This might have gone better with a full night’s sleep,” Ford said.

Stan snorted. “That’s the grand take away?”

“Also, I need to set up an alarm system for any unusually sized creatures in our vicinity.”

“We also have to set your _arm_ ,” Stan drolled. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

“Hmm…” Ford sounded just as tired. “Also make sure the boat isn’t sinking.”

“Eh…” Stan yawned. “She’ll be fine.” His eyes slipped shut, and he might have fallen asleep then and there if Ford hadn’t sat up and jostled him. Reluctantly, Stan rubbed his eyes.

Ford was giving him an odd look, similar to the one before when Stan talked about atmospheric neutrons. Both calculating and confused. “I… how did you know my arm’s broken?” He hadn’t given any real outward sign, had he? Not anything Stan reasonably should have noticed. 

Stan’s brain stuttered. “Well, you fell, and- and you’re not using it!”

Ford blinked. “Of course.” Then he winced. Stan resisted the urge to do so as well. The pain was back. Ford pulled his sleeve up with a hiss. The skin was bright red, the arm slightly bumped in the wrong place. “You’re probably going to have to help me get to my room. It’s not that bad. I have something that should fix this up.”

_What does he mean ‘not that bad’... Hurts like hell._

Ford hummed, not looking at him. “Broken limbs tend to, don’t they?”

What?

“Let’s go,” Stan stood shakily and helped his brother to his feet. Leaning on each other, they made their way back to Ford’s room, kicking past broken wood, fallen chairs, an upended chess set. Stan turned on the light as they passed, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“I do listen to you,” Ford said, almost too quietly to be heard as they reached the door. Stan shouldered it open. Ford’s room was now more of a whirlwind disaster, but that would be okay. Stan carefully deposited Ford onto the bed amongst the pages of equations, and almost managed to stifle a gasp of pain at Ford’s movement.

Testing the sore spots on his rib cage, Stan tried to sort through the mess on the desk. “Alright, where’s that thing you need?”

“Stan.” Ford’s voice was still quiet, his eyes half closed.

“Just give it a minute, Ford. It won’t hurt so bad.”

“I mean it, Stan. I do listen to you. You said I don’t listen to you, but I’m always listenin’...”

Stan paused, hands on the pages. A sigh, long and tired, drifted from his lips. He pinched between his eyes. “Alright, Sixer.”

Ford was falling deeper, Stan could feel it.

“S’under the desk.”

Good. Stan reached beneath the desk and pulled out a long metal pole with a helpful arrow pointing at one of the ends. “Point toward injury. Seems simple enough…”

Stan pointed the pole at Ford, half asleep on the bed. Cool relief flowed through him and the pain in his arm eased immediately. Ford relaxed, and Stan could as well.

He sat heavily on the bed beside him, and after pointing the pole at his ribs, was able to relax into the mattress. He pushed a load of pages onto the floor to make room and laid back. He’d just stay here to make sure Ford was alright…

They woke up late that evening with uncomfortable cricks in their necks, but for the first time in two weeks, Stan actually felt rested.

* * *

Here was the thing about Ford: he got injured a lot more than he let on, and he was very good at pretending he wasn't in pain. Obviously, it didn’t work for Stan, but Ford kept at it. Stan had to tell him repeatedly to stop chewing his fingernails so damn short, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. It was only a matter of time before Ford caught on, Stan supposed.

Stan was bundled up in a huge coat as they traversed the icy tundra, to a spot Ford apparently needed to investigate. Stan had already slipped repeatedly and there were most definitely no hidden treasures out here. He was more than ready to head back.

Ford, on the other hand, was on his knees, his hand deep in a small hole he’d just carved. “It’s delicate instrumentation, Stan. You have to be careful and slow with it.”

Careful. How about they be careful about their freezing asses?

Ford sighed. He dropped whatever the thing was deeper inside and slowly started to come back out, only to stop. He cursed and pulled harder.

Stan rubbed his arm. “Doing alright?”

“Yes. Fine. It’s just… uh,” Ford pulled _hard_ , and this time Stan wrinkled his nose. It was tight around his upper arm, caught on something sharp. A button perhaps?

“No, Ford- Ford stop-”

“It just needs a little-” Ford jerked his arm.

Stan dropped down and grabbed him, but it was too late. “Damn it, Ford. If you’d just wait. It’s a stupid button.” He pointed at the offending thing on Ford’s jacket. Ford looked at it as if he’d just noticed, and then back at Stan.

“... I… apologize,” he said.

Stan raised an eyebrow. He huffed. “That’s a first.”

They headed back to the warmth of their vessel sans one measurement instrument and Stan promptly forgot about the button incident.

Ford, it seemed, did not.

The next morning, while making breakfast, Ford was unusually quiet. They were going to head back out again to deposit the second instrument, and Ford wanted to get an early start. He was usually unfortunately chipper on mornings like this. Not today. Today, Ford poured coffee on his fingers, and Stan handed him a napkin without looking up from a vacation travel magazine.

There was a long pause, and then Ford poured a little more. With a hiss, Stan dropped the magazine.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

Ford just looked at him. He turned his palm upward, and very deliberately, poured more coffee into his open palm.

It was _very_ hot, and before he could think, Stan knocked the cup out of his hand. It clattered to the floor, splashing warm coffee on their shoes. “Stop that!”

Ford’s brow creased. “Fascinating. I knew it. Can you… can you _feel that?_ ”

Stan stuttered. He was on his feet, breakfast forgotten. “What are you, crazy?”

“Don’t lie to me, Stan.”

“Lie about what!”

Ford pursed his lips. “Stanley.”

Stan had a moment where he considered continuing to lie. The moment passed and his shoulders slumped. He crossed his arms. “And what of it? Don’t burn your damn hand. I have to carry my bag all day.”

Ford, despite his words, looked shocked at Stan’s confession. He looked down at his hand, and then at Stan’s. “How long has this been happening?”

Stan scowled and pushed a finger into his twin’s chest. “I am not one of your science experiments, Ford.”

“I know!”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I-” Ford sighed in exasperation and whipped his hand off. It wasn’t actually burned, luckily. “Just answer the question, Stan! You don’t have to be so obstinate!”

“Me? Oh _I’m_ the obstinate one!”

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Stan huffed. “As if you’d even believe me! Sure, sure. So you can make your _stupid_ brother jump a bunch of hoops. Sounds great. ”

“I don’t think you’re stupid!”

Stan couldn’t believe his ears. He laughed, but not in a nice way, and shouldered past him to the door, ignoring the pang of Ford’s back against the counter. He pushed through the screen and stomped across the deck

But Ford wasn’t going to let this go. He followed him outside as Stan readied his fishing gear a little more forcefully than was probably necessary.

“Stan, we have to talk about this.”

“Do we? We’ve been doing just fine not talking so far!”

Ford groaned into a gloved hand. “If you’d listen to me for a second-”

Stan slapped down his fishing net, hands clenched into fists. “No, you listen to me!” He inhaled shakily. “It doesn’t work both ways. I only feel sharp bursts of pain. I also feel caffeine and whatever else that drug was you tried last week, which _sucked_ by the way. It started a little after we left and I’m pretty sure it used to happen when we were kids. So there. There’s the information I have. I’m sure _you_ would have it all figured out by now, but this is all I’ve got. Now, I’m going ice fishing.”

Ford tried to speak but Stan was already moving again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ford called after him.

Stan dropped off the edge of the boat onto the ice. “Can’t hear you!”

Ford kicked something. “You don’t know I’d have it figured out! You don't have to always compare yourself to me!”

Stan cackled. He turned and glowered up at his brother. “You are the most self absorbed prick I have _ever met!_ Newsflash! You aren’t that great! I never wanted _to be_ you. I just wanted to be _with_ you! Why do you still not know that! I spent my entire life trying to _be with you!_ ” All at once, he wasn’t angry. He was just sad. 

“I… what?”

Stan shouldered his fishing bag, pole in hand, and started walking.

“Stan! Stanley, come back!”

“Fuck off!”

“Wait!” Ford’s voice cracked.

Stan kept walking. His shoes crushed the snow and ice beneath them. He couldn’t leave forever. There was nowhere to go, not really. It was all a little too late, wasn’t it? Why did he think it would possibly be a good idea to go on this trip? He was just torturing himself. This whole situation was only another reminder. Stanford was never going to care about him as much as Stanley did. 

“That is not true!”

Finally, Stan stopped. He frowned. His hands were freezing. He’d walked out without gloves. Why did they have to have this argument on the damn arctic tundra? He didn’t want to turn around, not yet. He waited. Something was kicking at the edge of his mind, a piece of the puzzle he was missing.

Ford had jumped down off the boat and followed him onto the ice. He jogged until he was close, but still a safe distance away. He didn’t have to shout now. The wind blew icy dust between them.

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I know you’ll see it as invasion of privacy, and I didn’t, well, it’s hard enough just getting along normally. I’m not… the most self aware person. I’ve made terrible mistakes, Stanley. You didn’t mean to break that stupid machine for the fair. And even if you had, you were a teenager and what kind of- what kind of brother doesn’t give their family second chances. I…” Ford trailed off. “I ruined your life and then had the _audacity_ to call you back and treat you like an errand boy.”

Stan swallowed thickly. The palms of his hands pricked where Ford was squeezing his hands into fists.

“I don’t know how to make it better, but poking around in your mind didn’t seem like the best option. But I... I should have told you.”

Stan was having a difficult time breathing. His entire body was stiff, frozen like the ice around him. He turned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Ford had the decency to look embarrassed. “I hear your thoughts sometimes, for a few weeks now.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not one sided, whatever this thing is. It just presents differently. I-I didn’t know what it was for ever, and then it got too late to talk about it and I _should have_ but, I guess, I guess, what I’m saying is I… I don’t have any excuses. It’s not…” he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It’s not one-sided.”

He wasn’t talking about the weird abilities anymore. Something in Stan broke a bit, and he chewed his lip. He wasn’t going to _cry_ , damn it.

When Ford’s hand met his shoulder, he didn’t pull away even though logically he should have. He had more than 50 years of experience with being conned.

But his brother’s hands were aching with how tightly he’d been gripping his fist. He’s laid a soft hand on Stanely’s shoulder. Stan dropped the pole down. He couldn’t look at him, instead clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Shit, Sixer. That some kind of apology?”

Ford laughed in a wet way. “I suppose it is.”

Stan chuckled. He leaned into his brother’s shoulder. “We’re really pieces of work, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He managed a smile, and now it was safe to look at Ford. He did. “You know what I’m thinking?”

Ford nodded, eyes not quite meeting his. “Uh, it’s not, I’ve refrained from experimenting with it, actually. I knew you wouldn’t like… well, I wanted to get your permission first, but that meant I had to tell you and…”

“No, no, I get it.” And Stan did. He’d been so angry about so many things about Ford. This was different. Not to mention the idea of Ford restraining himself from a scientific discovery was blowing his mind a bit.

“So… you know what I’m thinking right now?”

Ford shook his head. “It’s not all the time. It seems to be random bits and pieces. I do know you’ve had the theme song for something about a duck detective stuck in your head for the last three days, though.”

Stan snorted. That was true. “It’s catchy.”

“It’s driving me mad, actually, but sure.” Ford’s face broke out into a hesitant smile and Stan chuckled.

They fell silent. What did they do now?

Stan took a deep breath. He held up his fishing pole. “You wanna go fishing, Sixer?”

“I… would love that.”

“Good, but we’ve got to go back to the boat first. I don’t have any gloves or my big coat and I’m freezing my ass off.”

Ford laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and they started back toward the Stan O’War. Their voices rose and fell in the quiet of the morning tundra, no one else around for thousands of miles.

It wasn’t perfect, and Stan doubted it ever would be.

But it wasn’t one-sided, and that was enough for now.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I spent two days writing this instead of working on my end of the semester paper because I had a Mighty Need. I just finished Gravity Falls in 2020, took a quick gander at the fandom and you guys are incredibly complicated??? You have names for aus that everyone uses??? I’m so impressed. A little disappointed by the relentless lust for triangle dude, but not exactly surprised. Anyway, please leave a review if you enjoyed this. I’m thinking about maybe doing one from Ford’s point of view, but I haven’t decided yet. Anyway, have a great day, everyone stay safe and wear a mask :)


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